The Rules of the Game | Page 9

man, "and we'll keep busy."
"Everything going all right?"
"Pretty good. Poor lot of men this year. A good many of the old men
haven't showed up this year--some sort of pull-out to Oregon and
California. I'm having a little trouble with them off and on."
"I'll bet on you to stay on top," replied Fox easily. "I'll be over to see
you pretty soon."
The man nodded to the bookkeeper with whom he had been talking,
and turned to go out. As he passed Bob, that young man was conscious
of a keen, gimlet scrutiny from the blue eyes, a scrutiny instantaneous,
but which seemed to penetrate his very flesh to the soul of him. He
experienced a distinct physical shock as at the encountering of an
elemental force.
He came to himself to hear Fox saying:
"That's Johnny Mason, our mill foreman. He has charge of all the
sawing, and is a mighty good man. You'll see more of him."
The speaker opened a gate in the picket railing and stepped inside.
A long shelf desk, at which were high stools, backed up against the
pickets; a big round stove occupied the centre; a safe crowded one
corner. Blue print maps decorated the walls. Coarse rope matting edged

with tin strips protected the floor. A single step down through a door
led into a painted private office where could be seen a flat table desk. In
the air hung a mingled odour of fresh pine, stale tobacco, and the
closeness of books.
Fox turned at once sharply to the left and entered into earnest
conversation with a pale, hatchet-faced man of thirty-five, whom he
addressed as "Collins." In a moment he turned, beckoning Bob forward.
"Here's a youngster for you, Collins," said he, evidently continuing
former remarks. "Young Mr. Orde. He's been in our home office awhile,
but I brought him up to help you out. He can get busy on your tally
sheets and time checks and tally boards, and sort of ease up the strain a
little."
"I can use him, right now," said Collins, nervously smoothing back a
strand of his pale hair. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Orde. These 'jumpers' ...
and that confounded mixed stuff from seventeen ..." he trailed off, his
eye glazing in the abstraction of some inner calculation, his long,
nervous fingers reaching unconsciously toward the soiled memoranda
left by Mason.
"Well, I'll set you to work," he roused himself, when he perceived that
the two were about to leave him. And almost before they had time to
turn away he was busy at the papers, his pencil, beautifully pointed,
running like lightning down the long columns, pausing at certain places
as though by instinct, hovering the brief instant necessary to calculation,
then racing on as though in pursuit of something elusive.
As they turned away a slow, cool voice addressed them from behind the
stove.
"Hullo, bub!" it drawled.
Fox's face lighted and he extended both hands.
"Well, Tally!" he cried. "You old snoozer!"

The man was upward of sixty years of age, but straight and active. His
features were tanned a deep mahogany, and carved by the years and
exposure into lines of capability and good humour. In contrast to this
brown his sweeping white moustache and bushy eyebrows, blenched
flaxen by the sun, showed strongly. His little blue eyes twinkled, and
fine wrinkles at their corners helped the twinkles. His long figure was
so heavily clothed as to be concealed from any surmise, except that it
was gaunt and wiry. Hands gnarled, twisted, veined, brown, seemed
less like flesh than like some skilful Japanese carving. On his head he
wore a visored cap with an extraordinary high crown; on his back a
rather dingy coat cut from a Mackinaw blanket; on his legs trousers that
had been "stagged" off just below the knees, heavy German socks, and
shoes nailed with sharp spikes at least three-quarters of an inch in
length.
"Thought you were up in the woods!" Fox was exclaiming. "Where's
Fagan?"
"He's walkin' white water," replied the old man.
"Things going well?"
"Damn poor," admitted Tally frankly. "That is to say, the Whitefish
branch is off. There's trouble with the men. They're a mixed lot. Then
there's old Meadows. He's assertin' his heaven-born rights some more.
It's all right. We're on their backs. Other branches just about down."
There followed a rapid exchange of which Bob could make little--talk
of flood water, of "plugging" and "pulling," of "winging out," of "white
water." It made no sense, and yet somehow it thrilled him, as at times
the mere roll of Greek names used to arouse in his breast vague
emotions of grandeur and the struggle of mighty forces.
Still talking, the two men began slowly to move toward the